


Mrs. Cecil Forrester's Domestic Complication

by Cerdic519



Series: Further Adventures Of Mr. Sherlock Holmes [37]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Victorian, Cake, Documentation, Domestic, F/M, Framing Story, Inheritance, London, M/M, Politics, Slow Burn, Theft, Untold Cases of Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-09
Updated: 2018-07-09
Packaged: 2019-06-07 18:11:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15225034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: Perhaps one of the strangest starts to any of Sherlock's cases when the newly-married Mrs. Cecil Forrester once again calls on his services – because her maid seemingly did NOT dust her husband's writing-desk!





	Mrs. Cecil Forrester's Domestic Complication

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Vulcan1](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vulcan1/gifts).



_Introduction by Sir Sherrinford Holmes, Baronet_

As I mentioned in the previous adventure, the shocking affair at the Manor House Club happened at the same time as Sherlock was solving the case later published as _The Greek Interpreter_. Both led to ructions with our brother Mycroft who, most unusually for him, felt compelled to come over to our London house to tell me how awful our youngest brother was for investigating 'the wrong things'. When I refused to speak to Sherlock about changing his ways Mycroft actually took a step towards me in his anger, only for Kean to appear from wherever he had been and step between us. That was the only time that I saw Mycroft afraid. I did not see him again for many a year and I could not say that it made me sorry. Although I did resist Kean's suggestions for a celebration party to mark his departure.

All right, I resisted briefly. I gave in of course. Bastard dug out the leopard-print shorts, which was damnably unfair of him!

This next matter was a small one (unlike the contents of the leopard-print shorts!) and possibly one of the strangest starts to a case that ever was. It also, equally rarely, brought someone from a previous case back into the lives of my brother and Watson, a lady whom the dynamic duo were to rescue from potential travails a second time.

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

_Narration by Doctor John Hamish Watson, M.D._

We were both surprised one fine morning to receive a card sent up by a young lady who required our services, as the name was familiar to us.

“Mrs. Cecil Forrester”, I read. “Perhaps she has just called to say thank you?”

“I doubt that”, Holmes said. “I recall that she sent a most gracious letter stating her gratitude, along with that slice of delicious wedding-cake.” He paused before adding, “you _do_ remember the wedding-cake, Watson?”

I blushed.

“I did not think that you would be back for a few days”, I said. “I did not wish for it to spoil.”

“I telegraphed you that same morning”, he said archly. “I _like_ cake. Or at least, I would have liked it.”

I sighed. It looked like I would soon be making a trip to the bakery.

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

Mrs. Cecil Forrester, née Miss Elizabeth Forrester, thanked us for seeing her and took a chair.

“I feel something of a fraud for imposing on you both”, she said. “You were so clever in dealing with that dastardly Lieutenant Easton and sparing poor Cecil and his father, and I read about your adventure in the _”Strand”_ magazine. But I doubt that you have ever started an investigation from so little as what I have today.”

“I am at your service”, Holmes said. “Pray continue.”

She took a deep breath.

“It is about my maid, Millie.”

All right, that was unexpected. We both stared at her.

“You see, it is like this”, she said, wringing her hands. “Millie is what one might call slow-witted, but the one thing I would stake my reputation on is that she is honest. Yet either she has told me a lie, or something very strange is going on.”

“What had happened?” I asked.

“She may have dusted dear Cecil's writing-desk yesterday.”

We stared at her, but apparently that was it. She had been right; this really was very little to go on.

“Was there some reason why she should not have dusted the desk?” I ventured.

“I explain things so badly”, she sighed. “As you know Cecil's father, the major, has resumed his post in the Army and with both his elder sons having married well he has settled most of his estate on Cecil. That means the dear boy is wealthy enough not to have to work, but his father does not wish him to live an idle life – the major had a younger brother called Aloysius who was a most regrettable example of such behaviour, - so he arranged a courier post for him. It has all turned out very well; Cecil likes his job and is of course very good at it.”

“The armed forces employ special couriers to deliver important documents around the country”, Holmes explained to me, “the sort of things that one could hardly entrust to the general post no matter how ferociously they guard what is in their temporary possession.” 

He turned back to our guest. 

“So your husband's job involves a great deal of travelling to and fro?”

“It does”, she said. “We have as you know moved to a small Sussex village called Three Bridges, on the main railway line between London and Brighton as that is highly convenient for him. He can be in London quite quickly when needed.”

“I wonder that you did not wish to stay in Lee”, I said. “Was it not nearer?”

“We had originally intended to”, she said, “but as I mentioned at the time, developers were interested in acquiring our road for a large number of smaller properties. It came about that one of the other house owners wished to move for his health, and another died and left his house to relatives who did not wish to live there. The major had acquired a small London place that he liked far more as it was in the same street as one of his clubs, and he was quite happy for Cecil to do as he wished with the house. So we all met and it was decided to accept the developers' offer. My own parents moved to the seaside town of Hove so they are only a short train ride from our house.”

“And your own new house?” Holmes asked.

“It is wonderful!” she sighed. “Neither Cecil nor I really liked his father's house; it was far too large even though we do intend... well, we shall see. Our new place is half the size and so much better. I find housework quite therapeutic but dear Cecil would have a fit if he thought that I did any, so we employed Millie from St. Faith's, a place the other side of Crawley which trains up girls. As I said, she is a little slow-witted, but until this incident I was quite happy with her.”

Holmes pressed his long fingers together.

“You firmly believe”, he said eventually, “that your maid is telling the truth when she says that she did not dust your husband's writing-desk?”

“I do”, she said firmly. “I suppose that I have no grounds for it other than a women's intuition, but I do feel that she was being honest when I asked her. And I do not see _why_ she should lie, unless she felt worried that her saying that she had might lead to her being fired, which is something that I would never do. Yet someone very clearly did dust that desk.”

“The maid dusts the rest of the room as normal?” Holmes asked.

“She does”, our visitor said. “She does it quite well, although I sometimes go round after her when I am sure that Cecil will not be home early.”

I smiled at the mild wifely deceit.

“Does your husband ever use his desk to keep the letters or documents that he is called upon to carry?” Holmes asked.

“He does not as a matter of principle”, she said. “But I have been thinking about that, and I suppose that there may be letters telling him where and when to go. Might they be important?”

I was beginning to feel a little alarmed. Holmes had that look on his face I had to use myself from time to time, one usually presaged his saying something that the recipient would not like.

“Mrs. Forrester”, he said gravely, “I am beginning to feel that there is more to this case than meets the eye, and that it may be somewhat darker than merely a maid's error. Let us assume for a moment that you are correct, that your maid is honest and that she did not dust that desk. Evidently neither you nor your husband did, yet the dust was gone.”

She looked at him in confusion. He sighed.

“Someone gained access to your home”, he said. “Someone searched your husband's desk, then realized that they had left fingerprints behind. The obvious way to eliminate them was to clean the desk. They could not know that it was not usually cleaned by a maid. How is it kept clean?”

I could see that he was distracting her from her rising fears, and it worked. 

“There is a place in Crawley, a mile away, that offers a deep-clean service for properties”, she said. “It means vacating the place for a whole day every three months or so, but that is not a problem. The only downside of the house is that it in in a slight depression and, despite the fires, can become a little damp over time, but the service allows the house to air thoroughly. Cecil always empties his desk out before they come; he says that he thinks it stops him amassing too much clutter. They last came a little over two weeks ago, so there must have been some dust before I noted its absence. You actually think that someone may have broken into our house?”

Holmes raised his hand to forestall her panic.

“That is one possibility”, he said. “The other is that someone who was admitted to the house for some other reason took the opportunity to search the desk. However, I see two problems with that. Firstly, whoever searched the desk must have spent some time in so doing, as they had to both do a thorough search and then clean it afterwards. A writing-desk is a large object, after all. And secondly, there was the risk of their being disturbed by someone in the house. Where is the desk, pray?”

“In a small room at the back of the house, all by itself”, she said. “It was advertized as a conservatory, but it is really just a small extension with lots of windows. There is also a skylight, but it is new and has a lock on it. Plus the room is overlooked by our neighbour on one side.”

“Interesting”, Holmes said. “Is there anyone that you have admitted to the house lately who, in your opinion, might have done such a thing?”

She reddened. He smiled.

“You had better tell us all”, he said.

“We had a man – I will not sully the word by calling him a gentleman – from a London newspaper”, she said, looking quite annoyed for once. “He made it clear that he was investigating Lieutenant Easton and, most annoyingly, Cecil's grandfather.”

“His grandfather?” I asked, confused. She nodded.

“I said that Cecil does not need to work”, she said. “That is mostly true. It all goes back to his grandfather, Colonel Edgar Prendergast, who was... well, a character. He was married three times, with each and every one of his wives leaving him. And having read about him, I must say that I was not the least bit surprised!”

I smiled at that.”

“His grandfather was, it was said, a man of high moral character”, she said. “He expected those around him to hold to similar high standard, which I thought – but did not of course say to dear Cecil – most likely explained the three wives. He left his whole estate to his son, the major, to be passed on to the eldest of each generation. But there was a clause in the will which stated that, if the person currently holding the estate committed any act which resulted in their serving time in a gaol, then they forfeited it all to the next in line. The holder was also not allowed to sell any part of the estate, only to draw the interest from it as an income. It was that estate that the major passed onto Cecil keeping only what he had inherited from his mother, the colonel's first wife who had been quite wealthy.”

“Ah”, Holmes said. “Now we are getting somewhere. If such a fate does befall your husband, _cui bono?_ Who is next in line?”

“That would be Colonel Edgar's grand-daughter Josephine, Cecil's cousin”, she said. She smiled slightly. “I believe poor Colonel Edgar would have had a conniption had he known that a _female_ might inherit his lands one day. She is the daughter of the colonel's elder daughter Margaret, who married a Mr. Joseph Maunderby. I believe that she is training to become a journalist, which I suppose is an acceptable profession for a lady in this day and age.”

I could hear the doubt in her voice.

“Have you ever met her?” Holmes asked. She shook her head.

“I only know that she lives not far from us”, she said. “In Horsham, some ten miles to the west. A pleasant little town.”

“And have you heard from your husband since his departure?” Holmes asked.

“Just a short telegram to say that he had arrived safely”, she said. “It was sent from the Waverley Station in Edinburgh. He is due back tomorrow, he said.”

Holmes looked at her gravely.

“This has developed considerably from what was initially just a questionable domestic incident”, he said. “I do not like this at all. Watson, is there anything of import in the _“Times”_ this fine morning?”

I blinked at the apparent _non sequitur_ but obediently picked up the Thunderer and scanned the front page. 

“Oh.”

“What is it?” Mrs. Forrester asked at once. I really did not want to tell her but I had no choice. I read the main article:

“'A most strange and alarming incident occurred north of the Border last night. A Sussex gentleman, a Mr. Cecil Forrester, was travelling from Stirling to Edinburgh in order to catch the Night Sleeper to London when he was brutally assaulted by three ruffians in his compartment. There seems to have been no motive for the attack save that a parcel that Mr. Forrester was carrying was stolen, along with his wallet. Fortunately he is recovering in an Edinburgh hospital and hopes to resume his journey shortly'.”

Holmes turned to a stunned Mrs. Forrester.

“I need you to do something for me”, he said urgently.

“Of course”, she said.

“I require that you spend the night in London and only return home when I tell you”, he said. “I must be frank with you, madam. I have reason to believe that there may be further developments in this case and I would rather you be away from your house for a while. I need to put certain arrangements in place and that will take some little time.”

“I will do as you say”, she said, evidently still worried.

“I shall try to arrange for your husband to be transferred to a London hospital, so that you can visit him” Holmes said. “Watson, would you be able to take Mrs. Forrester to luncheon at the Grand? And hand one of my cards to the manager there, a Mr. Gallions. I did a service for him in a private matter only recently, and he promised a free room for myself or anyone who needed it in return.”

“Sir, I could not....”

“I insist”, Holmes said firmly. “If I am to keep you from your home, let it at least be in some comfort. I shall arrange for your husband to be transferred south as soon as possible, so you shall soon be reunited. Watson?”

I was a little put out that he did not want me with him whilst he 'arranged matters', but smiled and offered the lady my arm.

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

“Of course I would have preferred to have you with me”, he told me later. “But as is sometimes the case, I was meeting with one of my acquaintances who barely trusts me and would certainly not tolerate a second person.”

“I do hope that the lady's husband is innocent in all this”, I said. “He struck me as a decent boy the times we met.”

“I am sure that Mr. Cecil Forrester is totally innocent in this matter”, Holmes smiled. He looked at his watch.

“Are we expecting someone?” I asked. It was getting late, and I wanted to turn in for the night.

“I was expecting Mycroft”, Holmes frowned. “But perhaps he is waiting for Mr. Forrester to be moved. The hospital in Edinburgh said that his injuries are not serious, and I have arranged a transfer for him to be in London by tomorrow, courtesy of the Night Sleeper.”

“Why would your brother care about that gentleman?” I wondered. He yawned and stood up.

“Because he suspects Mr. Forrester of selling national secrets to a foreign government”, he said lightly. 

What?

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

The following day we called on Mrs. Forrester and escorted her to the hospital whence her husband had been taken. I expected Holmes to have all sorts of questions for him, but he only spent a few minutes before leaving the couple to talk. When we escorted the lady back to her hotel Holmes asked some decidedly odd questions about her domestic arrangements, and after we had left her he immediately went to dispatch a telegram.

“What was that about?” I asked when he returned.

“I am planning for Mr. Forrester to return to Sussex on a certain day”, he said. “The hospital said that they could release him tomorrow, but for various reasons I wish him not to return to Sussex until Wednesday.”

He was clearly not going to elucidate me on his plans. I sighed, but at least we went back via my favourite dining-place in Trafalgar Square.

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

Wednesday morning found us bright and early – well, early – and we met the Forresters at Victoria Station. Holmes seemed quite pre-occupied but chatted amiably with the couple during the journey to their home station. The London, Brighton & South Coast Railway was one of the better railway companies of the time, and I rather liked its yellowish locomotive liveries.

Three Bridges is a junction station on the London to Brighton main line where branches fork off to Crawley and Horsham in one direction and to East Grinstead and Royal Tunbridge Wells in the other. Hence it was a ridiculously large station for such a tiny village although I doubted that it would remain a village for long. Railways had that effect on some places. Unfortunately the station also came with something I could have well done without. Mr. Mycroft Holmes, the one member of the family that I was rapidly coming to dislike.

“I hope that you know what you are doing, Holmes”, Mr. Mycroft Holmes said archly. “This is a matter of extreme national importance, you know.”

“National importance?” Mr. Forrester asked, clearly alarmed. “Mr. Holmes, what is happening?”

“I promise to explain all when we reach your house”, Holmes said soothingly. “Did you bring the men I asked, Mycroft?”

“Yes, but.....”

“Then let us proceed!”

He swept from the station to where a cab had three policemen squashed into it. Holmes and I took a second and the Forresters a third, leaving the obnoxious government official to find his own transport. Ah well. 

It was only five minutes' drive to a small, secluded house set down a quiet cul-de-sac. I noted that a footpath at the end of the road continued to pass underneath the railway through a small arch, and I could see the steam of an approaching train heading towards London. The house itself was well-kept and the garden was pristine, a gardener working away on of the beds. Holmes smiled as we approached and I also noted that although Mr. Mycroft Holmes' cab was now close behind us, the one with the policemen in it had fallen behind. I wondered why.

Mrs. Cecil Forrester welcomed us all to her home, introductions were made and coffee and cake were served. Holmes thanked her for her hospitality and began.

“I have to say”, he said, “that this has been one of the strangest of all my cases. It started with Mrs. Forrester's concerns about the honesty of a domestic servant, and ends with an act of treachery to our great nation.”

Mr. Mycroft Holmes looked as if he was about to say something at that point but Holmes gave him a sharp look and he did not. I did not smirk but there was a poorly-suppressed giggle from Mrs. Forrester. I liked her even more.

“Now”, Holmes said, “Mrs. Forrester was quite correct in her assessment of her maid's honesty. I am sorry madam, but I was obliged to make one or two of my own inquiries into the girl just to be on the safe side, and I am pleased to say that she is indeed all she pertains to be.” He paused before adding, “unlike someone else in this story.”

“What do you mean?” Mr. Forrester asked. Holmes looked at his watch for some reason before continuing.

“If the maid did not dust your writing-desk”, he said, “then evidently someone else did. But who? We know that the house was cleaned from top to bottom two weeks before – I checked your cleaning company as well, but they too were what they claimed to be – and upon questioning your wife she admitted that she had checked round after the maid a week before, so would at least have noticed any absence of dust. Therefore someone else had been in the house in that last week, yet Mrs. Forrester said that she kept no other servants in the house.”

He paused.

“I must admit that I was initially a little slow in seeing it”, he said regretfully. “But then I realized. There were indeed no other servants 'in the house' – but there might be a gardener with access to it!”

With perfect timing a shadow darkened the French doors and we all looked up. The three policemen from earlier were there and in their implacable grip was the young gardener. Mr. Forrester opened the door to admit one of the policemen.

“Jackson?” he asked, clearly amazed. “You arrested our gardener?”

Holmes sat back.

“The key to this matter was your recent inheritance”, he said. “It depended of course on your not acquiring a criminal record during your life, for should you have done so the money would have devolved to your cousin Miss Josephine Maunderby. It was therefore in her interests that you did precisely that.”

“Her choice of journalism as her profession, although unusual, was most calculated. It allowed her to quickly acquire an understanding of how the modern media works and in particular, it gave her access to some people involved in your own job, Mr. Forrester. She quickly saw that if you were to be found or even suspected of selling the papers you transport to a foreign government, then the newspapers would be all over the story. But there had to be proof – which was, quite literally, where your gardener came in.”

He turned to Mrs. Forrester.

“Whilst you were in London”, he said, “I am afraid that I took the liberty of breaking into your home. As I had expected, there was a small door adjoining the room where the writing-desk was and, most critically, one of those raffia rugs which are used for corridors that experience heavy use. I then went upstairs and checked your husband's sock draw.”

“Why on earth would you do that?” Mr. Forrester demanded.

“Because I wished to see your taste in footwear”, Holmes smiled. “All your socks are either blue or black – but in the raffia rug, I found at least three threads of _brown_ wool, one of those close by the door leading out. Evidently someone had come through that exit and that person had doffed their shoes to try to avoid detection. Unfortunately for them they had forgotten about the rug.”

I looked instinctively at the gardener's rather small feet. Sure enough the socks were brown.

“This is how it happened”, Holmes said. “Miss Maunderby knows that few things would draw suspicion against Mr. Forrester more than an attack on himself, followed by the 'discovery' of copies of the papers that he is supposed to keep safe right there in his own writing-desk. She hires three thugs to steal the current documents that Mr. Forrester is carrying whilst in Scotland and, most cleverly, at the same time visits several embassies of powers hostile to Great Britain, suggesting that she has access to some 'useful information' and asking how much might they pay for it. Naturally this quickly reaches the long ears of my brother who reasons, incorrectly, that the attack was staged and that the husband and wife are in on this ramp together.”

His brother scowled at him.

“I asked you, Mrs. Forrester, as to what days your gardener worked”, Holmes said, “and then arranged to delay your husband's return to one of those days. My brother, I am sure, had had you watched in case you suddenly abandoned him and make a mad dash for the coast and your foreign paymasters!”

Our hostess turned and glared at Mr. Mycroft Holmes, who flinched. I failed to hide a smirk. By some distance.

“So Jackson here is working for Miss Maunderby”, Mr. Mycroft Holmes said, looking decidedly uncomfortable at the way things had turned out. “”I shall be sending some men to her address before the day is out. Horsham, I think you said, Holmes?”

His brother shook his head, and walked over to where the two policemen were holding the gardener. 

“Ladies and gentlemen”, he said with a flourish, “allow me to present... Miss Josephine Maunderby!”

“I do not believe it” his brother scoffed, rising to his feet and crossing to join him. “That is a.....”

He had placed his hand on the gardener's chest and.... well, the slap she gave him echoed into the room. He recoiled in shock (Mrs. Forrester promptly collapsed in a fit of giggles) and the gardener made a bid to get free, but the third policeman rapidly rejoined his colleagues and they were soon dragging her away in handcuffs.

“So my own cousin tried to frame me?” Mr. Forrester asked, clearly shocked at the turn of events. Holmes nodded.

“In your desk you will find reasonably credible facsimiles of what pertain to be the sort of documents that you usually deal with”, he said. “The British Government would of course refuse to reveal any details of those documents on the grounds of national security, so I am sure that a court would have most likely believed claims of your treachery. And yet all is well, if only because your wife was brave enough to approach me over what seemed at the time but a minor domestic complication. There is a lot said about a women's intuition, but sometimes it turns out to be quite accurate.”

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

Yes, I did get the address of the bakery where Mrs. Forrester had ordered her wedding-cake. Yes, I did have to cross most of London to get there. And yes, I did buy another cake for Holmes. 

Shut up!

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩


End file.
